The wind is square, it smells of rain after dust. I slink under the university’s concrete awning. Each brick pillar is propped with a half full glass of snakebite. By the delivery entrance a polystyrene tray of shredded cabbage and fag butts is tied to the doorstop with a pair of tights. Streetlamps turn off and daylight follows me. It angers the gulls who pick at the stadium’s carcass. Bleach mist conceals all but the machine’s closeness. I am mad in every single way.

It is prose poetry which is often published in poetry magazines but rarely published in prose. And this is not the first time you have wanted to put line breaks in my prose poetry. I think you have a repressed fetish for it. *wink*